


Mercy Delayed Is Mercy Denied

by Wilusa



Category: Carnivale
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wilusa/pseuds/Wilusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a "no win" situation, Ruthie grapples with the most difficult decision of her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy Delayed Is Mercy Denied

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.

"I don't want to do this, Mama."

Ruthie frowned at her strapping son, who was on the verge of tears. Deliberately misunderstanding, she said, "Well, you gotta help me, Gabe. I can't do it alone."

"But - but -" The retarded youth groped for words. "I don't think _Ben_ wants it. We've been hurtin' him."

Ruthie winced. _Torturin' him, is more like it._ But what she said aloud, gently and reasonably, was, "We have to get some food into him, Gabe. It may make him feel worse for a bit, but in the long run, it'll help him get well."

Ben moaned, for all the world as if he was trying to voice an objection. Gabe sniffled.

"He ain't awake enough to have heard me," she said brusquely. _Am I tryin' to convince Gabe, or myself?_ "C'mon, lift him up some! I have to get him more alert, so he'll be able to swallow."

Gabe hoisted Ben into a near-sitting position - a procedure that elicited more moans - and held him in his arms, Ben's head resting on his shoulder. Then Ruthie went to work on him with a bottle of smelling salts. _Forgive me, Ben. Whether or not you can understand, I'm doin' this 'cause I love you._

His eyes fluttered open, and he whimpered a protest.

"Sshh." Laying the bottle aside, she dipped a spoon in a jar of baby food and brought it close to his mouth. "I know you're in pain, but you have to get a little food down. It's for your own good."

He tried feebly to push her away, using only his right arm. He no longer seemed to have any voluntary movement in the left. His eyes were unfocused, but his speech was clear as he spoke a single word: "Don't!"

Ruthie took a deep breath. Ignoring a strangled sob from Gabe, she said quietly, "Just a little, Ben. I know you're sufferin', but things are gonna get better, I promise. An' if you eat just a little now, you'll be able to lie down an' rest. Think about that, how good it will be to lie down an' rest! Soon, very soon. All you gotta do is eat a little..."

He'd been drifting in and out of what was, at best, semiconsciousness for weeks. At the moment, she doubted whether he understood a word she was saying. But that didn't keep her from hating herself. _Endin' the torture as a "reward" for his eatin'? God help me, what have I come to?_

Whether or not he'd understood, he quit resisting, and swallowed - eventually - about half a baby's normal serving of strained carrots. He retched twice, but didn't throw up, and she crooned, "Good, good," as they eased him down again.

Gabe ducked out of the trailer hastily, and the sounds that followed told Ruthie he _was_ throwing up.

x

x

x

It was four hours later that she realized Ben was watching her.

Before Gabe left to do his act, they'd turned him onto his right side, with pillows at his back. Now, as she tidied the trailer, his eyes followed her every movement.

After a few minutes, she walked over to him, smiling. "Awake, Ben?"

But as she reached out to stroke his hair, he recoiled with a gasp.

"Oh, God," she whispered. "I ain't gonna hurt you! Believe me, I'm sorry I ever have to hurt you."

This time she saw in his eyes that he understood. He lay still while she smoothed his hair and kissed him on the forehead. Then, as she straightened, he said, weakly but clearly, "Ruthie?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "Yeah, that's right."

Several times in these hellish weeks, he'd mumbled obvious questions like, "Where am I?" Later, he'd seemingly forgotten the answers. But this was the first time he'd called her by name.

Now he asked, "Wh-what...what...h-happened to me?"

She dropped to her knees beside the bed. "You were injured," she told him. "Hurt bad. But you're doin' fine, makin' progress every day. An' there's no need to worry. You're safe with people who love you."

He frowned. "But...how'd I...get...hurt?"

"How much do you remember?" she asked carefully.

He'd never mentioned Justin Crowe or New Canaan. She suspected that between the initial, massive blood loss, and the subsequent fevers and hemorrhaging, he'd suffered brain damage. She'd been careful not to let him see his blue blood, lest the sight of it bring back traumatic memories.

 _If he's forgotten most everythin', we won't have to tell him that bastard Crowe is - somehow - alive an' well._

Samson still insisted Crowe had been dead when he checked his vital signs in the cornfield. But a day later, the evil preacher was talking to the press, giving out a cover story to account for the bizarre events that had taken place. He told reporters the motion of the Ferris wheel had caused him to have an epileptic seizure - his first, which was why he hadn't been prepared for it. His sister's screams had given carnivalgoers the false idea that there'd been an attempt on his life. That had led to panic and rioting, in which, tragically, several people had died. But the situation had only gotten out of hand, he charged, because the carnivalgoers had unwittingly ingested some kind of hallucinogen! He suggested a malicious carny might have put it in soft drinks, or even in the cotton candy.

As if that wasn't outrage enough, he went on to claim that the healer traveling with the carnival was a fraud. According to Crowe, several New Canaanites had admitted taking money to pretend Benjamin St. John had healed them; they'd been expelled from the community. ("Meanin'," Samson had said dourly, "the folks Hawkins healed are dead, killed by Crowe or his goons. An' their neighbors won't even question their bein' gone.")

The outcome of the conflict in New Canaan was a waking nightmare for Ben's friends - a disaster beyond any hope of salvaging, given his condition and probable prognosis. So it was with considerable trepidation that Ruthie had asked, "How much do you remember?"

He said thoughtfully, "I know my name." Paused, then added,"You...Gabe...carnival." Apparently, that was all.

She didn't know whether she should be relieved or heartbroken. _Guess I'm feelin' both._

"That's right," she told him. "All three of us work for a carnival.

"A while back, our Ferris wheel partly collapsed. Several people were injured, an' one woman died."

 _I ain't lyin' to him, not exactly. It did happen. What's the harm if I let him assume that's how he got hurt?_

"Oh. Yeah. I do remember...somethin' about...Ferris wheel..."

His eyelids drooped; she thought he was drifting off to sleep. But then he blinked, looked up at her again, and said urgently, "Ruthie...I know...I ain't...makin' progress...every day."

" 'Course you are!"

"No! I ain't...gettin' no better. I feel...bad. Real bad."

 _Oh God. What can I say?_ "It may take a while before you feel better," she improvised. "But you gotta hang in there. We can - we can give you more whiskey. That's it, more whiskey, for the pain." _If only we could get him into a hospital, or even have a real doctor treat him! But we can't do that without exposin' the secret o' the blue blood._

"Whiskey...don't...help." His eyes bored into her now, and there was an icy hardness in their depths. "It's just... _you_ keepin' me alive," he told her. "Ain't...right. Can't...get well. Please, Ruthie...stop...forcin'...food into me! Let...me...go."

"No!" It was her turn to recoil, in horror. " _That's_ what wouldn't be right, Ben."

But then she found herself thinking, _Or would it, if it's what he wants? Have I been holdin' on to him for_ _ **my**_ _sake? Not so much keepin' him alive - a real, meaningful_ _ **life**_ _\- as drawin' out the agony of his death?_

 _No, no! Don't go there! Lettin' someone die is a sin. An' Samson trusts me. He only agreed to let me move Ben into my trailer 'cause he knew I love him, an' I'd do everythin' humanly possible to get him well..._

 _What if I've **done** everythin' humanly possible, an' I'm seein' the proof it ain't enough?_

She couldn't tear her eyes away from Ben's. "Please, Ruthie!" he pleaded. "I've been...tryin' to ask...for a long time. If...you've ever...really...loved me, you'll...let me go. Stop...the feedin'. Let...nature...take its course."

 _He's makin' sense._

 _But that in itself means he ain't got brain damage, leastways not much. An' he's strong enough to ask somethin' he couldn't ask before. Are those reasons to keep fightin' for his life?_

 _Fightin' against **him?**_

By now he was exhausted. His eyes were going out of focus again, but he continued to mumble. "Please...Ruthie...have mercy..."

His voice trailed off and he sank into unconsciousness.

Ruthie sat back on her haunches, stunned.

Minutes passed. Then one of her hands moved, almost of its own volition, to rest loosely over his nose and mouth.

 _Could I...should I...do somethin' right now? Same result, the one he wants. I could make it quick, **more** merciful than lettin' him starve..._

 _How can I even imagine such a thing? Is Satan temptin' me? It's a sin, dammit!_

She scrambled to her feet, and was backing away from the bed, blinded by tears, when the door opened to admit Gabriel.

x

x

x

Ten minutes later, a weeping Ruthie had confessed her "temptation" to Samson - who looked so angry that she already regretted having told him.

"So you came over here," he said in a dangerously tight voice, "an' left him with Gabe?"

"Huh?" Puzzled, she gulped back a sob and gave her eyes a quick wipe. "Sure I did. Gabe knows how to take care o' him! An' he knows he mustn't let him see the blue blood, or leave him alone -"

"Be honest, woman!" Samson thundered.

"Wh-what?"

The carny boss leaned across his desk - an intimidating figure, despite his size. "You were hopin' he'd ask Gabe to smother him! So it'd be over an' done with while you were out o' the trailer, an' you could tell yourself you weren't responsible!"

"Oh, my God!" She leapt to her feet, almost overturning her chair, and stumbled toward the door of the Management trailer. "No, Samson! I never thought o' such a thing!"

But she was already asking herself, _**Did**_ _I, deep down? Not consciously, but...God in Heaven,_ _ **could**_ _I, deep down, have wanted to put it on Gabe?_

"Sit down," Samson ordered.

"No, I gotta -"

"Sit down!"

She looked back at him, and he said more kindly, "Maybe I shouldn't o' accused you o' that. In any case, there's no need to check on them. _I'm_ sure, if you ain't, that Gabe wouldn't do nothin' like that without his mama's permission."

She went back, hesitantly, and sank into the chair again.

"An' besides," Samson mused, "it sounds like Hawkins is in his right mind, even if he don't remember much. He didn't ask you to kill him outright, just to 'let nature take its course.' Figured you might see that as more acceptable. So I don't think he'd try to take advantage o' Gabe, by askin' him to do somethin' he'd be upset about later. Hawkins ain't like that."

"No," she whispered, "he ain't." _Thank God._

"But -" Samson was glaring at her again. "I can't believe you told him he got them injuries from the Ferris wheel fallin' on him!"

"I didn't say that, I just let him assume -"

"Stop splittin' hairs. The point is, you shoulda been _tryin'_ to bring back his memories."

Sitting up straighter, she protested, "That would be cruel!"

Samson shook his head. "We can't let ourselves think that way, Ruthie. Hawkins has a divine mission, that he still has to carry out. For whatever reason, Justin Crowe ain't dead. An' as long as he ain't, Hawkins' work on this earth ain't done."

Ruthie was shaking her own head now, half-rising from the chair. "You don't know the shape he's in. You ain't seen him in weeks!"

He had the good grace to look guilty about that, and she pressed her advantage.

"You keep makin' excuses for not comin' in to look at him. You know what the truth is? As long as me an' Gabe tell you he's still alive, an' you don't know no more than that, you can go on livin' in a fantasy world, picturin' him fightin' Crowe again. But it ain't gonna happen, Samson! He ain't never gonna be able to do that!"

She was in tears again...and Samson was ashen.

When she'd brought her emotions under control, she said softly, "I think...I think maybe...I should do what he asked. God knows I don't want to. I don't want to lose him. But I'm thinkin', maybe, I _should_."

Samson was subdued now. But he still shook his head, muttering, "His divine mission..."

A new idea struck her. "Samson, remember what you told me about Avatars?" In the weeks after Lucius Belyakov's death, Ben had given Samson a fuller explanation than he'd ever received from Belyakov; in the aftermath of New Canaan, he'd shared it with Ruthie.

"If I've got this right," she said now, "no Avatar o' the next generation can be born to anyone else till Ben an' Crowe, assumin' they're alive, have each had a good, long chance to father a son. Crowe could already have one somewhere - another Avatar, possibly a grown man. But if he does, that son ain't Light, or Ben woulda sensed him as his Prince. Even if the Prince was older'n him. Right?"

Samson nodded. "Yeah," he said heavily. "But I don't like where I think you're goin'."

She swallowed hard. "Like it or not, we should face it. Ben's wounds ain't healin'. By now, that means that for some reason, they never will. His insides are torn up, his left arm useless, he's in constant pain. An' he can't seem to recover from the blood loss. Even if his mind is sound, he ain't never gonna be able to fight Crowe or father a child.

"An' he's only nineteen! We might be able to keep him half-alive for...God knows how long, seein' as he still has an Avatar's constitution." She knew no ordinary man would have survived this long, on the meager nourishment he was getting. "Meanwhile, there's either one or two Dark Avatars out there, with no one to oppose them. An' if there's two, no new Light Avatar can be born until Ben dies."

"So you're sayin'..." Samson's voice trailed off.

 _Yes, it's only right that I put it into words myself._ "I'm sayin' the divine mission may require we let him die. The longer the wait for a new Light Avatar to be born, the less chance he'll have."

"It could be that Crowe don't have a son yet," Samson pointed out, "an' he'll father a Light Avatar. In that case, the longer the wait for his Dark opposite to be born, the better."

"True," she conceded. "But Crowe's gotta be in his forties. An' for all his bein' a minister, we've seen he ain't no holy man. What're the odds he has a kid somewhere?"

They sat in silence, gazing bleakly at each other across the desk. Ruthie knew they were edging closer to agreement...on the most painful decision of their lives.

And then they heard a piercing shriek.

x

x

x

By the time Ruthie raced out of the Management trailer, Gabe was screaming at the top of his lungs. "Mama! Mama!"

 _My God, what's happened?_

Carnies were coming on the run from all directions, headed for her trailer. But she got there first - with Samson, despite his short legs and need of a cane, surprisingly close behind.

When she burst into the trailer, Ben was in convulsions, Gabe still screaming. But not loudly enough to drown out another sound.

Samson heard it too, from outside; he let out a despairing cry.

Ruthie dealt with the source of the problem, then tried to go to Ben's aid. But Gabe, in tears, enveloped her in a panicky hug.

Samson barreled past them. He shot a quick look up at her, and in that instant, she knew _neither_ of them would ever forgive themselves.

Gabe was wailing, "Ben asked me to turn the radio on, Mama! To get his mind off the pain. An' it was just nice music. But then there was somethin' else..."

"Not your fault, sweetie," she said numbly.

No, it wasn't Gabe's fault. How could he have known the "nice music" would be followed by a live broadcast of Brother Justin Crowe's Church of the Air?

x

x

x

The End


End file.
